


fixed that for you

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-04
Updated: 2013-11-04
Packaged: 2017-12-31 12:29:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1031723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>porn (they Do It)</p>
            </blockquote>





	fixed that for you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MourningPluto](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MourningPluto/gifts).



The first thing that catches your attention when you head into your respiteblock is that the screen of your husktop is displaying a little window with a green header and that means that the code you've been writing for CT's new rig compiled successfully.  Fuckin' finally.  He wants to make you a wireless spinal port so you can jack into other people's ships without having to get in the actual bioware, which, if it hadn't been your idea in the first place, would have been astoundingly creepy of him, but since you suggested it you feel obligated to at least see if it's possible.  As a troll of honor.

 

The second thing that catches your attention is that Eridan is on his stomach on the couch with three fingers up his nook and his mile-long legs spread so far apart it makes you blink and hold up your hand to check the aspect ratio.  Except it's just your eyes, and his legs really are that long, and you're a dumbass who needs a break from the internet for a while.

 

It's making this sorta squelching noise, the way he's thrusting his fingers in and out of himself - he took the rings off, you note, probably because some of them have sharp edges - it's kinda really hot.  It smells like his open nook in here, so he's probably been at it for a while.  He's soaking wet and leaking onto the sheet - pale violet smears.

 

The other noise is his breathing - ragged little hisses, like he's pissed off and just ran a race, scratching your ears like a needle on a record.  He's almost whining, shifting his hips, the muscles up the back of his legs tensing and releasing as he almost-but-not-quite enjoys himself.  Poor thing.

 

"So," you say, by way of introduction, ambling a little closer to the platform.  "I see you started without me."

 

His back coils up with tension and his hand stops moving.  His hips rut once, and then lay still.

 

"Fucker," he mutters, into the cushion by his head.

 

"Can I help you with something," you ask, rhetorically, unzipping your jeans.  "Sir."

 

 _"Fucker,"_ he growls, finally craning his neck around to glare at you over his shoulder, and cants his hips up a bit, weight on his knees.  It pulls his nook a little wider open, angled more at your hips.  You realize you're grinning.

 

"What seems to be the issue," you continue, sliding your boxers off with the jeans as you shuck them.  Multitasking.  "I can't help you if you don't answer my questions."

 

"Have I ever told you - I mean _really told you_ \- how much of a soul suckin monster you are," he asks, pistoning his knuckles further in, shuddering and biting his lip.  Wow.  Can't even quit whacking it to diss you.  Must be pretty desperate for it - which is flattering, you have to admit, since he brought that desperation here.

 

You cross your arms and shrug at him, bulge twisting between your legs.

 

"... Sol," he murmurs, lowering his eyelids, running his dark tongue over his black lips.  He spreads his fingers.  The resultant noise is completely obscene.  "Fine. I'm havin' a software issue."

 

"Yeah?"  You run a knuckle just inside the open rim, bumping up against his fingers, and he spasms.  Your pulse jumps with it.  "Because this looks like a hardware issue.  Do you even know the difference, or -"

 

"I know the fuckin' difference, you useless techie, an' by the way _now is not the time_ for a lecture on the finer points a-"

 

"Just checking," you soothe, wrapping your fingers around his sticky wrist and pulling him out of himself.  His bulge is quivering against the sheets - more mess, more slick.  He makes a weird, pitiful sort of keening noise when he's empty - you watch his nook clench around nothing and, yeah, okay, most of the blood in your body drops to the pit of your stomach in one hard, dizzying rush.  

 

He's so aroused it's contagious.  You totally wanna fuck that, ASAP.

 

" - oh fuck," he whimpers when you finally slide in.  He's way hotter than normal - tighter, too.  You don't think you're imagining it, you're well acquainted with the dimensions of his nook.  It feels like your bulge is being throttled by molten silk.  Really - aggressive silk, what the hell kind of jacked up porno did you just stumble into, he's never been this - turned on?  Responsive?  Like a suckerpunch.

 

"- Jesus, ED, what the hell," you hiss out at him through gritted teeth, trying not to jackhammer your hips.  He keeps - squeezing, deep inside, it's really fucking distracting and it feels so good you're having trouble talking.  One of your hands has found his hip, which you're clinging to for balance - the other is aimlessly petting his back, damp with sweat.

 

"I can't _come,_ " he whines, voice all garbled and broken.  

 

"Wh- when did you last -"

 

"Last time we did it," he snaps, rutting his hips back against yours, making you suck in a very deep breath.  

 

"... that long?"  You've been busy for almost half a perigee.  He has the sexual appetite of a black hole.  

 

"I don't know why it won't - " he begins, and then trails off, because he's figured out how to rock himself up and down your bulge and it looks like his eyes roll back in his head a little and for fuck's sake, Eridan is the stupidest thing in the universe, why is that so attractive?  You lean over him and grab him by a horn to get him to quit it so you can just - think straight.  For a moment.

 

"Come _onnn,_ " he moans, squirming, and you want to smack his ass for being such a distracting little shit but he'd enjoy it, is the thing.

 

"Is there some kind of - blockage, have you had a blood test  -"

 

"I said it _wasn't a hardware issue_ you useless moronic piece of shit, how many times am I gonna have to -"

 

"So it's like a mental thing?" you say, interrupting him.

 

"... Y-yeah, I guess?"  Hesitant and grudging.

 

You have the most shit-eating grin on your face imaginable.  Your psionics crackle, once, down the root of your bulge to the tip, and Eridan howls.  The noise is perfect.  His arms buckle so badly his torso falls to the sheet cover - one juddering, helpless collapse.  

 

He's wetter than he was a second ago.  You can feel it sliding down his thighs.  Pause a moment.  Appreciate it.

 

"Like that, babe?"

 

He turns to look at you again, blinking in a daze.  "Yeah," he says, in a breathy hopeful little voice.

 

You really wish you could think of a terrible pun right now - _once you go captor you never go back-tor... back to masturbating? ... doesn't really flow, huh - once you go psii, you'll never be dry? - no, opposite problem_ \- but your genius fails you at the critical moment and the time for cracking an awful joke about Eridan's sexual dysfunction comes and goes.  You sigh with regret.

 

Dig the tips of your fingers into the round swell of his ass.  Knead a little.

 

“Can’t come without me, huh,” you murmur, almost to yourself.  He doesn’t answer, but you know he hears you because you can see the tips of his ears stain purple, and his claws dig into the padding like he wants to tear it.  Or like he’s trying to hang on.  

 

Which is pretty much a nonverbal yes, and you feel intensely proprietory of that little slice of moment-in-time, the little gap of existence where Eridan admits to needing you and you take an immediate, visceral relish in it, skin tingling.  Your ego tends to vacillate between ugly extrema but this is pride on an entirely different axis, the working-with-your-hands type, the no-one-replaces-me kind.  Good.  Very good.

 

“Yeah,” you say, agreeing with your own assessment, squeezing his ass again, gazing down at the shaking expanse of his body like it’s yours to take apart.  “You _really_ need to be fucked.”

 

His hips jolt and he snarls, but you’re already plunging into him, fast and unmerciful, and the snarl turns into a full-body groan.  His teeth are bared but useless, flats pressed against the pillow, eyes squeezed shut, saliva dripping from his open mouth.  Ugly with lust for you.  From a narcissist like Eridan it’s a rare sight, and you savor it accordingly, rocking his entire body hard and forcing his hips up higher.

 

“Come on, babe,” you coo, giving in at last to the urge to spank him, and he yowls, wiggling.  Another surge of wet spills out of him along his thighs, rubbing against the tops of yours, nook so well-lubricated the slide is frictionless.  You sink deeper and deeper into him.  You hit him again, other side, to make him clench and make that sound again - his precious little scream.

 

“Sol,” he whimpers, forcing his hips up even higher, hair plastered to his forehead, toes clenched.  “More -”

 

If you can’t think of anything nice to say about Eridan, you can at least say this: he takes the worst of you and asks for more of the same.  Logic says you should feel sorta dirty after fucking him and calling him your _little bitch_ and sometimes much worse; but you feel cleaner, instead, like you’ve unburdened a weight from your shoulders.

 

You make a noise of your own, low and hard and almost angry, and fuck him harder.

 

The psionics don’t do much for you, sexwise - they’re always there, coiled around your bones, livid in your skin, and the excitement of sex is the fresh data, the difference.  They feel good, sure, but so does scratching an itch or pigging out on fried grubworms.  

 

For him, it’s an almost religious experience.  Eyes rolling back, cries to the heavens, struck with little ecstasies of pleasure/pain - like the taste of menthol, striking two receptors at the same time, a hit he can’t get anywhere else.

 

You electrocute the inside of his nook in one hard pulse that makes him wail your name and rip the sheet open, and then you don’t stop, oscillating waves of red and blue like sine curves purring into his flesh, a steady thrum of ever-decreasing hertz.  You don’t stop coiling in and out while you do it - it’s two different executive processes but you’re peerless when it comes to focusing on two things at once.

 

Feeding him faster and faster waves until, to him, you’re sure it feels like a continuous buzz - but you’re the author of them, you feel every rapid-fire event as a single psychic crack.  Ones and zeroes and his body and your body and they’re all yours, they are the instrument you play with, and you’re good at it, you’re more than good at it, you’re a fucking genius.  You are so alive and brilliant and you will dip into his body and raise him up here with you, take him to the plane you’re on, where things are vivid and electrifying and perfect.

 

You cant your hips to scrape along him where it feels best, the places that make him tremble.  You’ve fucked him up the platform, his spine is a gorgeous 1/x arch, you’re so pleased to control the math of him that you reach down and wrap your hands around his horns, thumbs pointing down.  Something a little more parabolic - pull his head back further, stretch the skin of his throat taut, you can’t bite his slender neck from here but you can make him feel you anyway.  His horns were made for this, you should do this all the time.

 

Fuck into him hard like that - he sings out so beautifully, so sweet.

 

“Sollux, Sollux, Sollux,” he tells you in such an urgent wanton way, ribcage heaving, eyes blown black.  “More -”

 

“Ask nicely,” you tell him.

 

“- _please please please_ -”

 

You’re so giddy you could almost laugh, but you refrain for his sake.  

 

You extend your psionics to encompass his squirming bulge.

  
He falls to fucking pieces.

 

It’s always fascinating to you to observe the way it wracks through him and suddenly vanishes, leaving him limp - enough to distract you from orgasming yourself, letting you keep still while the paroxysms fade out.   His genetic material drenches you and the sheet beneath him and he seems exhausted, suddenly - you ease his head back down to the pillow, drag his hips back a little to straighten out his spine.  He’s still too shaky to move himself without toppling.  

 

You begin to try to ease yourself out of him - he has to be feeling burnt raw, you kind of went a little overboard.  A lot overboard.  Super fucking overboard, like, three whole boards’ worth.  You overdid it.

 

“- hey, come on,” he slurs out, giving you an annoyed look, settling his cheek against the drier parts of the pillow.  “Finish up.”

 

He squeezes around you in a very deliberate way.

 

You blurt out something obscene and surprised.

 

“You heard me,” he says, narrowing his eyes at you.  “God, you’re fuckin’ difficult.”

 

“But - I - you - okay,” you stutter out. Your mouth is incapable of functioning. Luckily, your pelvis knows how to handle the situation.  You silently thank your pelvis for picking up the slack.

 

The rhythm is one your guts know all on their own, though your brain can never seem to pin it down.  The rate of frequency dips and jumps and sometimes you have to be moving fast and sometimes it needs to be as slow as possible.  This is one of the fast-slow orgasms, a sort of dactylic meter you don’t quite force into regularity before coming.

 

It melts your brain out your ears, dissolving your spinal column into syrup.

 

Metaphorically.

 

You’re sprawled out on top of him when you can think about it again - more of a lazy cuddle than an attempt to pin him down, since he’s got about ten pounds of muscle on you.  He seems to be enjoying it, despite his fastidious nature; your slurry is flowing out of him at an idle rate, he hasn’t bothered to shift position or close his legs.  Your face is buried between his shoulder blades.  It’s nice.

 

… _Once you try Sol, you’re Shit Outta Luck_ , occurs to you from nowhere, and you snicker involuntarily.  Oh, goddamn it.  That would’ve been so good.  You have to remember that for next time.

 

“Fuck off,” Eridan murmurs in a luxurious bedroom rasp.  “No laughing.”

 

“Nah,” you tell him; and he grumbles, but doesn’t move at all.

 

“... I think you fixed it,” he adds, managing to sound entirely ungrateful.  You peel yourself off of his skin and sit up, rolling your shoulders.  Your knots of tension have vanished.  Orgasms are good for that.

 

“Buy a goddamn vibrator,” you tell him, cheerfully, and get yourself upright.

 

The last thing that you notice as you leave your respiteblock for the ablution trap is that you have a double-digit amount of trollian notifications to check - probably CT wanting to know how the latest coding bender turned out, KK because the little bastard can’t shut up, and maybe TZ or AA trying to get you to do something stupid and/or life-threatening.

 

The second-to-last thing you notice as you leave your ‘block, however, is Eridan flipping you double birds.

**Author's Note:**

> happy late birfday


End file.
